By Monica McFawn
Within the 11 kaleidoscopic tales that make up vivid Shards of some place else, Monica McFawn strains the combustive, hilarious, and profound results that happen whilst humans misinterpret the minds of others. The characters—an array of artists, scientists, songwriters, nannies, horse running shoes, and poets—often attempt to pin down another's perspective, basically to discover that their very own worldview is much from fixed.
The characters in McFawn's tales lengthy for and worry the encroachment of others. a tender boy reduces his nanny's telephone invoice with a choice, then convinces her he can remedy her different difficulties. a guy who works at a butterfly-release company turns into dangerously keen about fixing a recognized mathematical evidence. A poetry professor reveals himself entangled within the research of a murdered pupil. within the ultimate tale, an getting older lyricist reconnects with a well known singer to jot down an album within the Appalachian Mountains, basically to be interrupted by means of the looks of his drug-addicted son and a legendary tale of recovery.
by means of turns exuberant and philosophically adroit, brilliant Shards of some place else reminds us of either the boundaries of empathy and its absolute necessity. Our misreadings of others might be unavoidable, yet they themselves should be issues of attractiveness, allure, and connection.
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Extra info for Bright Shards of Someplace Else
Right, he decided, they would eat at the hotel where there was a restaurant. 20. It was quiet At the next table two Azerbaijanis were drinking beer in silence. Turning to take in the rest of the café, Viktor was momentarily blinded by a flash of light, and when he regained his sight, saw a man with a camera heading for the corridor. He turned to see who had been photographed, but apart from him and the Azerbaijanis, there was no one. So it was them, he decided, sipping his watery orange. Time passed.
I don’t cut your philosophizings, do I? ” Viktor nodded his agreement. He sipped his coffee, and was reminded suddenly, by the bitterish flavour, of the hotel bar in Kharkov and the morning he had been woken by shooting. ” he asked. Sighing, the Chief poured cognac and gave Viktor an inhibited, arrested sort of look. “Bowed his head did our brave young Red,” he crooned softly: “Cruelly shot through his Komsomol heart … “As a newspaper, we’ve had our losses. This one’s our seventh. Before long we’ll be unveiling a pantheon … Still, no skin off your nose!
No,” said Viktor. “I’ll send a car. Blue Zhiguli. ” Viktor did, and with a “Bye, then,” the Editor-in-Chief rang off without giving his name. Selecting a shirt from the wardrobe, Viktor wondered if it was to do with his story. Hardly … What was his story to them? Still, what the hell! The driver of the blue Zhiguli parked at the entrance was deferential. He it was who conducted Viktor to the Editor-in-Chief. “I’m Igor Lvovich,” he said, extending a hand. ” He looked more like an aged athlete than a man of the Press.